


i wanna ruin our friendship

by nni



Category: Deadpool (Comics), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-12 22:44:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3358037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nni/pseuds/nni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>we should be lovers instead</p>
            </blockquote>





	i wanna ruin our friendship

**Author's Note:**

> I interrupt your regularly scheduled Spideypool angst to bring you: this.  
> I have no idea how to write fluff (or, apparently, smut for that matter) so I'm very sorry, hahhh.  
> I know I've got other stories to update but I decided I wanted to push out something for hearts day that wasn't addled in angst so here you go! 
> 
> Title and summary from "Jenny" by Studio Killers which is the song that made me wanna write this at all in the first place.

Peter is hunched over his desk, pink tongue peeking out from between his lips and hands deftly working on potential upgrades for his web-shooters when he hears the tell-tale thunk of Wade’s boots muffled by the carpet in the living room. At this point he should really just give the guy a key, but he can’t imagine it would improve his options much. Deal with picked locks, jimmied windows, and other various yet equally annoying and intrusive means of entry, or hand over a key and easy access, basically forfeiting any remaining opportunities for peace and quiet he may have? Probably a no on the key. The devil you know, ya know? He sighs, shakes his head and goes back to his work because he’s been looking forward to working on this all week, and maybe if he’s really quiet Wade will think he isn’t home and-

“Spiiiiideeeeeeey~ Come out come out wherever you are~”

..Of course not. Soft swearing follows the miniature serenade, accompanied by a louder thud, and Peter stands and sighs again, resigning himself to the fact that he has to go make sure his apartment is still at least sort of intact. He scrubs a hand over his face as he drags himself out of his chair and into the other room. “What the fuck, Wade,” he breathes when he’s met with the sight of spandex and tangled cord and twisted limbs, and his lamp laying somewhere in the midst of all the wreckage.

“Ain’t nobody ever said I was graceful, baby boy,” Wade offers, and Peter can only assume that he’s trying to get himself out of the mess, but for all of his efforts he’s only making the situation worse. For a moment, he considers leaving the idiot there and returning to his work- why should he help him anyway? But he does kind of want his lamp back, and he can’t exactly leave him like this to fix himself, destroying the apartment in the process, so he crouches down on the balls of his feet and slowly untangles his friend - god he can’t believe he actually calls him that.

Wade is still struggling and flailing, spouting gibberish with the occasional coherent curse, and Peter thumps him on the back of the head. “Stop moving, moron, I’m trying to help you here.” It’s enough to stop his useless flopping at least, if not his mouth. He’s babbling on about the dangers of lamp-ownership, somehow steering the conversation (one-sided though it may be) to how Peter’s ability to untangle knots is probably surpassed only by his ability to put them to better use, wink wink nudge nudge. “You know you’re not actually supposed to say wink, right?” Peter asks, somewhat exasperated but at this point mostly just amused, as he finishes unravelling the cable and goes to replace his lamp on the end table near his window.

“Uhh, hello, mask?” Wade mocks, circling his finger around his face. “How ya s’posed to know otherwise, huh?” He grunts as he pulls himself to his feet, dusts off his shoulders and makes himself plenty enough at home on Peter’s couch. “Got any grub? Being held hostage by a lamp really works up the appetite ya know,” he whines, patting his stomach.

“Hey hey hey, feet off.” Peter swats at the heavy red boots, shoving them from the arm of his sofa and swinging Wade’s legs around to make room for himself. He sinks into the cushions and elbows Wade softly in the side, nudging him over and the mercenary grudgingly complies. “Jesus, am I your cook? No, I don’t have any food.” The reminder is a sort of painful one, though, and he groans at the thought of his pitifully empty fridge. It’s been a while since his cupboards had been lined with anything worth eating, too, and at this point he’s honestly sort of afraid to open them and find out what might be lurking inside. Fuck being broke. Honestly. Okay, not broke broke, he can afford what passes for food according to the rest of the kids on campus, but that’s not saying much, and even then he can never find the time to bother with groceries. Wade is looking at him with those big, dumb, puppy dog eyes, he can just feel them, he swears, so with another groan he finally concedes. “Fine, I’ll order a pizza,” he mumbles, digging into his pocket for his phone- which is snatched from his hands before he even gets the chance to unlock the screen. “Wade, what the-”

“Shhhh shh shh, it’s on me, Webhead.” He ruffles Peter’s hair and dials the number like he knows it by art. Peter scowls a little - it was just a test to see if he’d let him stay, manipulative bastard - but he can’t be too put out. He’s getting free food. Free food. Usually Wade is mooching off of him, not the other way around. That man blows through money faster than Tony Stark himself. One day he’s just getting paid, waving absurd amounts of money under Peter’s nose, only to beg him for a soft taco and a small soda a week later.

“Just get off a job?” he asks, leaning back with his arms folded over his chest. The mercenary is humming along to the ringback the pizza shop’s got going on (so it must be that sketchy place on 6th that Wade introduced him to with low lights and great food and the constant threat of mold-achieving-sentience), but takes a minute to beam back at him beneath the mask and nod enthusiastically, reaching toward his belt to no doubt flaunt his money when Peter backhands him in the chest. Not enough to really hurt, but enough to get the don’t flaunt your fucking blood money in front of my sobbing wallet message across. Wade is probably about to make some smartass remark - of course he is, let’s not forget who we’re talking about - but he doesn’t get very far before launching into his order.

It’s more like he’s feeding a small army than one mercenary and a slim spider, but Peter isn’t about to complain. He’s not above eating leftovers, Aunt May had taught him well, and with all the different types of food Wade is rattling off at the cashier, it sounds like he’ll have plenty of options. Assuming there actually is anything left, by the time he’s done with it. “Oh, and uhhh one of those pasta plates, yknow, with the pasta and the sauce and I think there’s cheese? There better be cheese, what good’s a fuckin pizza place if everything isn’t smothered in cheese. No no no, only 3 of the pizzas have mushrooms, dumbass, the others are them meatlover whatsits-” he turns his head briefly toward Peter and he can just imagine the wink that’s tossed at him behind the mask (Wade never misses an opportunity for innuendo), as he delves into the final stretch of ordering their feast - soda and breadsticks. Lots of them. Of every kind. Peter looks down at his grumbling stomach in dismay. “Awwww poor Spidey-Widey,” he coos, tossing the phone onto the coffee table and patting Peter’s belly. “You hungies?”

“Shut up,” Peter scoffs, shrugging him off and hiking his feet up to shove him further down the couch. Wade doesn’t move, and while Peter could easily solve that problem with a little more pressure, he really isn’t looking to cause any more damage to his poor apartment. Instead, he settles his legs firmly over Wade’s lap and tosses the XBox controller at him. “Netflix,” he mumbles, circling his ankle as Wade squeezes it gently. “TV’s full of those crappy made-for-television Valentine’s Day movies.” His nose scrunches up, his own sentiment echoed by a disappointed groan from Wade.

“I mean I like me a good snugglefest with a box of tissues and Love Actually as much as the next guy, but shitty-feel-good-romance-bullshit - yeah I said shit twice, sue me - ain’t really my bag either.” It’s easy to forget that sometimes it’s not actually all bad having Wade around. They have the same tastes, to some extent, and it’s nice to have the company now that his ever-shrinking list of friends was damn near nonexistent. When you can actually understand what he’s saying, he can be pretty funny, and he’s actually a lot smarter than most people give him credit for. Okay, yeah, the off-color jokes and the comments about the ‘goddamn authors’ and the way he talks to himself sometimes like he’s not the only one in on the conversation can be a little.. off-putting, but Peter’s gotten used to them in the way you get the hum of an air conditioner on a hot summer day; a little annoying, but almost comforting as it drolls in the background.

Peter nods in agreement, wriggling slightly to slide into a more comfortable position, and Wade’s grip around his ankle closes just barely tighter. Peter glances between his foot and Wade’s face, waiting to see if he actually noticed what was going on or if it was just another of those Wade-isms, but he’s greeted by nothing more than reviews of all the titles ticking by on the screen and why each and every one sucks donkey dong. He smirks and they stay like that a little longer, still unable to decide on a movie because sometimes Netflix isn’t anymore help than basic cable, until Peter’s phone buzzes across the coffee table. Wade lets out an excited yelp and slaps Peter’s thigh, tossing his legs unceremoniously off of his lap. He isn’t quite able to catch his balance before he winds up in a heap on the floor, spider-like reflexes be damned, as Wade stands over him, one foot planted lightly on his stomach.

“PIZZA TIME! C’mon, the fuck you on the ground for?” Wade hauls him to his feet and Peter barely has time to grab his key (just in case - last time Wade had gotten a little excited and dragged him outside to meet the delivery guy, and they were stuck finding some inventive ways to get back into his apartment with hands full of take out) before they’re rushing down the steps. The mercenary is bouncing on his toes as he counts out the sum of cash he owes the delivery boy and tells him to keep the rest as a tip, too lazy to bother with the change. The delivery guy probably counts it as compensation for having to deal with the equivalent of an overgrown five-year-old decked out in full mercenary regalia. He stuffs his mouth as they bound back up the steps, still trying to ramble on around the four? breadsticks he’s managed to stuff in there, and Peter can’t help but laugh.

This time, when they enter through the front door like proper, civilized people, Wade undoes a litany of buckles and clasps, metal clinking and scraping against leather as it thuds heavily onto the floor, and it crosses Peter’s mind that his downstairs neighbors probably hate him by now, considering how often this happens. They don’t complain, though, so he’d really rather not find out first hand. They retake their seats on the couch, this time Wade patting his lap in open invitation for Peter’s legs, and he complies. “Oh god, Spidey, it’s so good,” Wade moans around his mouthful of what Peter is pretty certain is pizza and pasta, and shoves a piece toward him, waving it in his face. “C’mon, eat up! Didn’t get all this food just for me. I mean, I probably could eat it all if ya wanted but seeing as this is your place and you’re bein’ so nice lettin’ me crash here n’ all - oh, did I mention I’m sleeping here tonight? Cos I am, so thanks for that - I figured I’d do the polite-” the word is exaggerated, complete with sloppy air quotes that make the pizza threaten to spill its toppings into Peter’s lap - “thing and let you have some, too.”

“The polite things would be to actually, oh, I dunno, ask if you could stay here first?” he grumbles, but doesn’t revoke the self-invitation. Instead, he snatches the pizza from Wade’s hand and takes a huge bite, hums in appreciation and works to chew entirely too much pizza at one time. Wade simply shrugs, whines about Peter taking his piece of pizza and not getting his own, and continues flipping through movie choices.

Two full stomachs, half of their food, and about twenty minutes later (it’s really kind of scary how quickly Deadpool can pack away a startling amount of food), they’ve finally agreed to a movie. Wade had gotten fed up with the pathetic selection Netflix had to offer and lobbed the controller against the wall, which had earned him a solid thwap up the side of the head, and he was lucky nothing had broken. In the process, though, the controller had bounced of the wall and hit Peter’s movie shelf, nearly knocking some over, and that is how they settled on Pacific Rim.

“You ever wonder what it would be like to walk around in one of those things? Like, stompin’ around tearin’ up Godzilla’s ass - not like that, you little perv, don’t think I don’t see that look -” Wade’s hand gives a warning squeeze where it’s somehow worked its way up to rest on Peter’s thigh; Peter glances down, about to say something but he is, inevitably, drowned out by Wade’s verbal rampage - “nah, nah, not into giant slimy sea monsters. That blue hair chick though, Mako -” he punctuates her name with a long, low whistle - “now THAT is an ass I’d tap. Her or, yknow, that Charlie Hung-man guy, her lil partner dude, I guess he’s supposed to be the main character or something? Chick’s way more interesting though. Still hit it, though, man. Still hit it. He’s got the look.” Wade pauses in his quickly digressing diatribe to sigh dreamily, squeezing again although this time Peter thinks it may be a little less intentional.

“Never pegged you to go after the blonde pretty boys,” Peter jokes, a smirk playing at his lips. He flexes his leg slightly, but Wade’s hand moves in the opposite direction as intended and now sits heavy on his hip. Peter looks down again, shifting and grabbing at a gloved wrist. “Uh, dude-”

“You ain’t pegged me at all, yet, Spidey,” Wade tosses back in that singsong voice, and this time, Peter can see the accompanying wink because they’ve known each other long enough that sometimes Wade can actually feel comfortable taking off his mask, especially if it’s getting in the way of a meal of such epic proportions.

He tries to fight the heat flooding to his cheeks, but if the way Wade’s grin grows that much wider is any indication, he isn’t doing as good of a job as he might like. He’s used to this game of flirtation - ever since they met, Wade has showered him in mock affection, played chicken to see how close he could get, how far under Peter’s skin, not to mention how he never shuts up about his as in spandex - but with his thumb rubbing ginger circles over the peak of Peter’s hip it all feels a little different. “Okay, first of all, I don’t really plan on pegging you at all. Ever. Secondly-”

Wade snickers. “Oh, not like you could anyway, Spidey-boy.” He could. Proportional strength of a spider, remember? Wade is a big guy, much larger than Peter with muscles that bulge and strain with every movement, but Peter still has the upper hand in terms of strength, and Wade knows it. Which is how Peter knows that it isn’t so much a comment on his physical ability as his preference. He can feel his breath come out a little shaky, but either Wade doesn’t notice or he just really doesn’t mind. “I wanna ruin our friendship,” Wade hums, and his full on grin melds into a smug, confident smirk.

“Don’t you do that enough already?” Peter retorts, but Wade just shrugs it off with what’s really more like a cackle than anything and retaliates with a firm squeeze between the legs. “WADE.” Peter jolts, panting in surprise and maybe just a little bit of arousal, but really who wouldn’t with a palm pressing against their dick?

Wade ignores the warning tone in his voice, easing over his chest and squeezing harder. “We should be lovers instead..” The tune is familiar but right now, Peter’s head is a little more preoccupied with the impending closeness between them, trying to bring his hips back down onto the couch and keep them from straining upward any further. “C’mon, now, baby boy. We can pretend I don’t see the way you look at me all we like, but it don’t matter, we both know better than that. Tried to let you make the first move but you been takin’ your damn sweet time about it, and c’mon, what better day than today huh?” His palm drags slowly over Peter’s sweats, the heel grinding at the base and Peter has to bite down on a moan and adamantly deny the fact that he’s almost half-hard already.

“That’s so fucking cheesy, Wade. Valentine’s Day? Honestly?” Peter deflects, but Wade conveniently chooses to ignore it and nearly closes the gap between them. His gaze flicks down to Wade’s lips, back up to his eyes and god he almost wishes he’d kept the mask on because the look there is terrifying. It’s raw, like he knows exactly what he wants to do and can see every second of it in his mind; cocky, like he knows he’s got Peter just where he wants him and goddammit that’s very hard to argue. Pinned beneath him, trying desperately not to rut his hips up into Wade’s hand and failing to believe that he’s never thought about this, no not even once. Okay, but he hasn’t seriously thought about it, hasn’t planned on actually doing anything, and nobody can tell him that they don’t get a little worked up after a good fight, and their teammate is right there panting with that fucking smirk on their face and the bulge in their suit just a little more prominent. Wade gets hot when he fights, it’s just something they’ve both come to accept (Peter more begrudgingly so).

This is a losing battle, and he knows it. He’s not exactly ready to jump the sanity ship and swan dive into anything official, but he’s very quickly losing his resolve against something physical, especially with the way Wade’s fingers are pressing down his length, bringing him to half-mast in almost agonizing slow motion. Wade offers a chuckle and a one-shouldered shrug, licks his lips and doesn’t break the eye contact, although Peter can tell it’s difficult for him to maintain (the self-esteem issues on that one, whew). “Shut up, it’s romantic and adorable and your dick isn’t complaining half as much as your mouth and-” he pauses for a moment, eyes finally lowering to Peter’s lips and lingering for a moment before meeting his own again - “sorry, got a little distracted thinkin’ of what else your mouth could do, but that’s beside the point, what I need your mouth to be doing (ugh shut up fuckin’ yellow) is givin’ me the go ahead yeah? Cos down south is sayin’ this is all fine and dandy but I ain’t exactly one for blurred lines, if ya know what I mean. Not about this anyway.”

It’s kind of funny, because in every other way blurred lines are Wade’s refuge. Good, bad, hero, not-so-hero, tasteful, tacky, but there are some areas even to him that are purely black and white. And at this point, Peter can’t exactly deny that he wants it. His hips are rebelling, pressing small circles against Wade’s generous palm, he can feel the heat blooming bright on his cheeks and it wouldn’t even take the mercenary’s acute skills of observation (well, when he wants to put them to use anyway) to see that his breathing isn’t quite as steady as he’d like. Still, verbally admitting it feels sort of like losing; like a game of ‘too hot’ and he doesn’t want to give in first.

He props himself up on an elbow, hooking the other arm around Wade’s neck and brushes the softest ghost of a kiss past his lips. His breath is ragged and he gives it a moment to even out before returning with renewed confidence, practically crushing their lips together this time and not able to hold back a groan when Wade nips his lip and squeezes him a little harder. It’s Wade that pulls them apart, chests heaving and the air between them heavy, like gravity is pulling them together. “So like...yes, right?” he asks, and this time Peter’s groan is a combination of exasperation and pleasure as their hips grind together.

“For fuck’s sake, Wade, yes, just-” he means to let out a growl of frustration but it turns into more of a needy whine because Wde doesn’t even give him the chance to finish his sentence before his hand is delving beneath his clothes and gripping his cock. He tilts his head back, and if he wasn’t standing completely at the ready before, he definitely is now.

“That’s what I like to hear.” Wade’s voice is low and gravelly, like thunder rumbling over a volcano, and Peter can’t help that it makes his cock twitch against the gloved palm. Everything he does seems to urge him on, though, and he’s not entirely sure how Wade manages to tug his pants and boxer briefs down around his knees while still twisting his hand around his dick, but cold air meets his fevered skin and causes him to swallow hard, screw his eyes shut. Wade is watching his own hand at work, mouth hanging slightly slack, and quickens the pace before coming to an abrupt halt. “Shit, lookit me, tryin’ to be the gentleman here and I forget the best part!” He tsks himself, patting at one of the pouches on his one remaining belt, with an absolutely predatory look in his eye. “Thank the author, I came prepared.”

There are so many questions that Peter has to ask, but he doesn’t get the chance- any coherent thought he might have had is cut off with a strangled groan as Wade removes his glove, slicks his hand with a bottle of some sort of lubricant he’s managed to find in his belt, and squeezes, pumping faster this time and twisting his palm over the head. The scars had made for an interesting texture through that layer of spandex, but now, holy Christ, Peter finally understands all the fascination with those condoms that are ribbed for their pleasure. His back bows a little and Wade smooths his free hand over Peter’s stomach, curls his fingers around his hip and presses him down. The groan that follows is enough to earn some very restrained sounding grunts from Wade, and he struggles to twist his hips and reach down between the other’s legs. He’s just out of reach, grunts as he looks down at Peter’s stretching hand and tilts his head to the side. “Nngh- whatcha got goin’ on there, sugarlips?”

Peter inhales sharply and tries to jerk his hip up as Wade squeezes tightly on an upwards draw, pressing his thumb against the slit and swirling it in beads of precum in a way that taper his attempts to speak into a drawn out moan. “D- Don’t-” he pants, settling to grab for Wade’s wrist if he can’t reach any further- “don’t wanna.. be the one to.. have all the fun,” he manages, and Wade smirks at him, swoops in for another kiss. Rough lips and teeth and tongue are all over his jaw, his neck, the hollow of his throat, and he tips his head back for better access. Everything is hazy, hard to think, but he brings his hands up to dig at Wade’s back, finds the zipper at the top of his suit and starts to drag it down.

Wrong. Wade sits up and things come to a grinding halt, if only for a moment before his hand starts working Peter’s cock again, lazily but persistent, and Peter misses it. Everything. The pressure, the heat, the pace, the teeth. “Hold up now, kiddo. I’m all for sharin’ the love but there’s a good chance that what you’re trying to do is gonna be a major boner killer and, as it stands - heh - I’m kinda more interested in major boners.”

“Ugh, Wade,” Peter protests, and he’s cut off by a sharp moan as Wade’s hand closes tight around his head, thumb circling over the heated flesh with consistent pressure. He throws his head back, swallows and heaves a few shaky breaths before trying to continue. “Are you just pretending that you don’t know I’ve seen you walk around my place naked when you use my shower (and I’m polite enough not to ask exactly what you’re using it for), or are you actually this dense? You’re really gonna pull this now? Look, I know about.. all that-” his hand waves around to indicate most of Wade’s body- “and I don’t care. Right now all I want is-” he cuts himself short, suddenly incredibly embarrassed about what he’d been about to say, and whines because he’s pretty sure that all the blood he feels rushing to his face could be put to better use somewhere else right now.

Wade had been staring at him intently, a look somewhere between appreciation and determination set on his face as his hand quickened its pace ever so slightly, up until that point. When he heard that stupid whine, saw Peter’s cheeks bloom bright beneath him, his mouth burst into a devilish smirk. “What was that, baby boy? You want.. what?” He emphasizes the point with a sharp twist of his wrist and Peter groans loudly, back arching before he can stop himself.

“Come on, don’t make me say it,” he pleads, but that stupid smirk isn’t leaving his stupid face and he can feel his own heat up even more under the scrutiny. Wade is being absolutely infuriating, speeding his movements just enough to make him twitch and writhe and want more, and he knows he wants to hear. Embarrassment be damned at this point, he just needs something. “Oh for god’s sake, Wade, just fuck me already.”

He can almost hear whatever it is inside of Wade snap as he says it. His eyes are all dark, pupils blown and bare and hungry; that fucking smirk is wiped off his face when he leans down to bite at Peter’s already kiss-swollen lips. “Fuck,” he mutters, and it seems like unzipping his suit and pumping Peter’s cock simultaneously is a multitasking feat too difficult even for Deadpool. “Might need a little help here, Petey.” He grunts and sits up, hand never leaving Peter’s cock, which makes it sort of harder than necessary for Peter to follow.

As he undoes the suit, as slow as he can force himself to go, his hand follows the zipper down, blunt nails digging at Wade’s back along the way. Good god is that the right move, because it earns him a loud groan that disappears down his throat to mingle with his own. The zipper ends just beneath the small of Wade’s back, and as he reaches the end he dips his hands beneath the fabric to cup and squeeze his ass- and a fine ass it is. Wade grunts again and lets off a breathless laugh, “Heh, thought I’d be the one doin’ that to you.” He breaks away, reluctantly, and at first Peter whines at the absence of lips on his and a hand around his dick, but it’s definitely worth it as Wade kicks off his boots and unbuckles his belt, shimmies the rest of the way out of his suit and lets it pool on the floor.

He settles himself between Peter’s legs again, grabbing the lube once more and rubbing it between his palms. It’s hard to tear his eyes away from Wade’s cock bobbing in front of him, twitching as he brushes a hand over it and Wade lurches forward slightly, groans. “Like what you see?” Wade teases, and before he can answer he’s lost in another deep moan, hips snapping into the pressure around them. “Here.” He takes Peter’s hand in his spare, slathers it with the liquid and guides it to his cock, moaning in earnest at the feeling. “Might feel a little weird if you ain’t done this before, baby boy. You sure?” Wade’s voice is rough and low, barely managing complete syllables, and that, plus the look in his eyes, plus the way his body looks coated in that thin sheen of sweat is suddenly absurdly hot, and Peter can only moan his approval with what is intended to be an enthusiastic nod but comes across more as his head lolling about in all that pleasure.

It burns. Wade’s finger is teasing up against him, just barely having slipped in, and it burns. But Wade is good, surprisingly kind and helps him through the pain by kissing him hard and pumping him harder until all the bad is overpowered by the good. He groans against Wade’s lips and Wade squeezes in retaliation, using the opportunity to work in another. It doesn’t hurt as much this time, and the burning fades almost instantly as the fingers begin to move, curling as they push forward and scissoring apart as they retreat. Before long, he’s practically begging for a third, too far gone to be embarrassed at this point and rocking his hips downward onto them with a broken, drawn out moan. His hand tightens around Wade’s cock, and the mercenary definitely isn’t shy anymore. In a brief moment of clarity, Peter almost laughs at the thought that if his neighbors hadn’t hated him before, they definitely do now, and he almost shares the thought, except it comes out as a whine as Wade retracts his fingers fully, panting as he hunches over him. There’s a flash of something in his eyes, an internal debate, before he swallows thickly and closes his eyes, getting lost in the feeling of stroking and being stroked in tandem, and allows himself to speak. “Ready?”

“God yes,” Peter says, rushed and breathless, and Wade wastes no time. Hands are around his hips and he can feel him prodding at the space his fingers have just left. He knows that this is going to be worse, even with the prep; Wade isn’t exactly a small guy, and he’s never quite gotten to this point with another man, not yet. But Wade is good about it (and at it, if he’s being honest), praising him as he eases in, distracting him with deep kisses, tongues sliding in and out of mouths and over lips, and, once he’s far enough that he can spare a free hand, returns his attention to Peter’s aching cock.

Wade is, of course, running his mouth like it never goes out of style, and sometimes Peter can make out what he’s saying; detailed descriptions of how good he feels, complaining that they hadn’t gotten around to this sooner, and Peter has to wonder how he can keep talking in the middle of all this. His vision is fogging over, mind going blank, and any time he opens his mouth all that comes out is a ragged, wrecked moan; there is absolutely no way he could carry on a full conversation. His hand is having a hard enough time getting a firm hold on his dick, but now that they’ve settled into a consistent rhythm, Wade is kind enough to take over that task for him.  
Rough digits dig into one of his thighs, hiking it up and pushing back so that his leg is draped over Wade’s shoulder. His moans go staccato and raise an octave, Wade groaning bass beneath it and thanking god for his flexibility. He can’t really blame him, because holy hell, is this angle fucking amazing. The burning is gone, hadn’t even been as bad as he’d expected, and if he thought it was good before then he must be in heaven now. Wade’s scars catch in the best way, and he digs his fingers into his back, scraping with his nails, which sets Wade’s voice on edge and punctuates his words with more clipped grunts, matching the rhythm of his hips.

“Fuck, Wade, I wanna-” he whines, arching up against Wade’s chest in one fluid motion, his cock sliding against Wade’s palm with more fervor. His vision is going white around the edges, fuzzy in the middle, and he thinks for a moment that maybe this is what it’s like to black out.

“Shhh, shh, I got you. Go on and let it go, cum for me, baby boy,” and oh god, he does. He never knew taking orders could be so fucking hot, so gratifying, but the moment he hears those words tumble from Wade’s lips, he loses it. Everything is white and clear and ringing, all he can feel is Wade’s solid heat on top of him and inside and pumping him through his orgasm, a sticky streak of white slicking between their stomachs.

“Shit, Pete,” Wade groans. “Fuckin’ hot, clenchin’ up around me like that, gonna make me-” he’s cut off with a loud gasp as he follows suit; Peter had regained enough presence of mind to clench again in response to Wade’s praise, tipping him over the edge, but he circuits out again for a moment at the feeling of Wade coming undone inside of him. It’s.. different, a little uncomfortable (what with Wade softening inside of him, sticky-slick trails leaking down the insides of his thighs before he’s even withdrawn), but fucking amazing all the same.

They take a moment to even out; their breathing slows but stays sort of heavy, and almost falls in sync, basking in the afterglow as they come down from the high. Peter swallows thickly and wipes a hand across his forehead, trembling slightly as Wade pulls out. “Fuck,” he mumbles, and looks down the length of his torso and thumps his head back against the arm of the sofa, a much less pleasant groan this time as he sees the mess he has to clean up. Oh god, he hopes they haven’t left a stain. Couches are a bitch to clean.

Wade chuckles and rolls off, forgetting that they are, in fact, on a sofa and falls to the floor with a painful thud, a muttered litany of curses following. “Jesus, Spidey, didn’t know ya had it in ya,” he breathes, and Peter manages a small laugh.

“Right now I’ve got it on me,” he corrects. “And you. I’m taking a shower- alone,” he quickly adds as Wade’s face lights up at the prospect of a round two. Which.. isn’t entirely as implausible as he would like to admit, but not right now. Dear god not right now, when he can still barely even stand on his shaking legs and he’s bound to be sore once the pleasure finishes dulling down.

Wade is sprawled out on the couch when he returns; he’s cleaned himself up and pulled the suit back up around his waist, mumbling to himself sleepily as Peter scrubs a towel over his hair and sits in the space between the mercenary’s calves. “So, should we maybe.. ta-”

“Tomorrow, Petey,” Wade grumbles, swatting at him and missing by a few inches. “M’tired. You can do all your-” he breaks off in a yawn, and Peter curses under his breath as he mirrors the gesture, not fully realizing how tired he was himself until now -”pansy ass mushy talk tomorrow.” He’s snoring before Peter can get out a reply.

He rolls his eyes instead, slapping Wade slightly on the chest as he drapes himself over top of him, feeling too lethargic to bother crawling into bed and definitely in no shape to pick up where he left off with his project. “Tomorrow.. Good.. good,” he manages to stutter out over a yawn before taking a cue from the Merc with a Mouth and crashing hard; he’ll sleep well tonight.


End file.
